The heart of Christmas
During the Christmas season I make a point of rereading the little book What Christmas Means to Me—a compilation of several of Mary Baker Eddy’s messages on the true significance of Christmas. Even if you’re determined not to get caught up in the busyness and the commercialism that often characterize the season, you soon realize that mere human effort, without a heartfelt appreciation and reminder of the spiritual significance of Christmas, can be frustratingly ineffective. As I’ve quietly considered the deep spiritual import of this little book, my thought has always been lifted to a stronger understanding of what we might call the heart of Christmas.
Many years ago, after much mental wrestling in my personal life, my study of Christian Science led me to glimpse this true spirit of Christmas, and what it means to be less wrapped up in the human self. After a divorce, I had agreed that our two young children should spend the Christmas holidays with their father. Sad to say, although I was sure the children would enjoy it—and their well-being was never a concern—I was plunged into a pit of despair and self-pity. The proverbial last straw came when I was asked by my branch church to substitute at the Reading Room on Christmas Day. I’m sorry to admit my first thought was: “Fine thing! Everyone else has family, friends, or plans. The only reason they asked me is that I’m the only one in the whole church who will be alone on that day!“ I now wince whenever I recall that reaction, but, of course, deep down I knew this was hardly a constructive or loving way of approaching the situation. Yet I was unable to summon up the spiritual discipline to refute this suggestion.
Eventually, a few days before Christmas, while rereading What Christmas Means to Me, and specifically “A Christmas Sermon” (see Miscellaneous Writings 1883–1896, p. 161 ), I realized I had a choice: I could continue down the dead-end road of self-involvement, or I could get hold of myself and willingly and happily go to the Reading Room with a heart full of gratitude for Mrs. Eddy’s provision for this gift to the community. I knew that Reading Rooms offer a quiet refuge and spiritual comfort for anyone struggling with discouraging thoughts—like me! Although some of this reasoning was still more in the head than in the heart, the angel messages persisted. My feelings of depression and self-pity were slowly edged out by the realization that this would be an opportunity to forget myself and reach out to other people with the impersonal love of the Christ.
I then turned to a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier that’s been set to music as Hymn 170 in the Christian Science Hymnal. It begins: “Let every creature hail the morn / On which the holy child was born / And know, through God’s exceeding grace, / Release from things of time and place.” As I considered those rousing words, this message from Isaiah came to thought: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a child is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder” (9:6 ). This Son, this divine idea, had been given to each one of us—God’s glorious and eternal gift! I also thought of one of Mrs. Eddy’s observations: “In different ages the divine idea assumes different forms, according to humanity’s needs. In this age it assumes, more intelligently than ever before, the form of Christian healing. This is the babe we are to cherish” (Miscellaneous Writings, p. 370 ).
I saw everyone–including my own children–nestled and cared for as part of God's holy family.
Beyond all sense of human family, beyond all the insistent mortal mind arguments, there swept over me a sense of awe as I pondered this angel message—especially this new-found evidence of the ever-presence of the Christ. I realized that right there in the Reading Room I could hail and cherish and rejoice in this holy child. This fresh line of thinking soon brought me release from a human sense of family and companionship. For the first time in months I saw everyone—including my own children—nestled and cared for as part of God’s holy family.
A few hours later, a friend from church, who had daytime plans for Christmas, asked me to join him for dinner that evening. Although I happily accepted his invitation, my time in the Reading Room proved to be the highlight of Christmas Day. And, yes, someone did come into the Reading Room to study—and expressed gratitude for its being open!
The quiet joy and inspiration of that experience have stayed with me all the years since, impelling a “longing to be better and holier,” a desire for more effective “daily watchfulness,” and a “striving to assimilate more of the divine character”—not only during the Christmas season, but every day throughout the year (see Science and Health, p. 4 ).
